The sound of the apartment door closing, followed by Prakash Murthy's heavy, defeated footsteps fading down the stairs, left a ringing silence in his wake. The tension, which had been as thick as a physical wall, vanished, leaving an awkward, fragile vacuum.
The kitchen curtain rustled.
Radha Varma stepped out, her face pale, her hands twisting in the front of her sari. She looked at her son, not as a mother looks at a child, but as one would look at a stranger who had suddenly appeared in their home. There was fear in her eyes. It was a fear that Arjun's 2025 mind recognized instantly: the fear of the unknown.
That look hurt him more than any scolding ever could.
"Arjun," she whispered, and her voice was brittle. "Who are you?"
It was the most dangerous question she could have asked. The truth—I'm a 34-year-old man from a future you can't imagine, in your son's body—was impossible. It would get him sent to an asylum.
He needed a lie. A "Krishna" lie to build a "Rama" truth.
He walked to her and, in a move that was purely his 12-year-old self, he took her hand. It was cold.
"I'm still me, Mom," he said, forcing his voice to be small, to be her son's. "I'm still your Arjun. When I fainted... something happened. It's... it's hard to explain."
"You... you scared that man, Arjun. You scared me. You were talking about things... business, percentages, lawyers... how do you know these words?"
"I've been reading," he said, gesturing to her college textbooks. "Your economics books. The business magazines from the raddiwala. It's like... before, they were just words. But after I woke up... I see them. I see the connections. Like a math problem. I saw his company was a problem, and I... I just knew the answer."
He looked up at her, his big, 12-year-old eyes the most powerful weapon in his arsenal. He filled them with all the genuine love he felt for this woman, the love from both his lives.
"He's right, you know," Radha whispered, her fear giving way to confusion. "He's a big CEO. Why would he listen to you?"
"Because I'm right," Arjun said simply. "And because I did it for you."
He reached into his school bag, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it to her. It was the original notice from the moneylender, Mr. Gowda.
"That's a thirty-thousand-rupee problem, Mom. I can't solve it with a teacher's salary. I can't solve it as a 12-year-old. But 'A.V.,' the architect... he can. That man, Mr. Murthy, he will solve that problem for us. He will give us a new life. A life where you never have to be afraid of a knock on the door again."
He squeezed her hand. "His company is the key. But to get it, I need you. He's right, I'm a child. The law won't listen to me. But they will listen to you. I need you to be my face, Mom. I need you to sign the papers for me."
Radha stared at the loan shark's letter, then at her son's intense, pleading face. The son who had fainted and woken up as... this. A genius. A protector. A stranger.
She didn't understand. She was terrified. But she was also a mother who had just been offered a lifeline from a storm that was drowning her.
"Arjun," she said, her voice trembling as she pulled him into a desperate hug. "My son, my son... what has happened to you?"
"I just grew up, Mom," he whispered into her sari, his own eyes closing. "I had to."
She held him for a long time. When she finally pulled back, the fear in her eyes was gone. Replaced by a new, fierce, and utterly bewildered determination.
"Okay," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "I trust you. What... what do we do about this 'lawyer'?"
Arjun's lips curved into a small, relieved smile. "That," he said, "is our next problem to solve."